


LAX-NRT

by alienheartattack (Sanneke)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Airplanes, F/F, F/M, Japan, Love/Hate, New Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3829216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanneke/pseuds/alienheartattack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Rivamika Jam on Tumblr. Prompt: Mikasa is on a 14 hr airplane flight from USA to Japan. In first class there is only one other person there (Levi) who happens to be seated only a seat away from her. They stubbornly refuse to be the one who gets up to relocate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	LAX-NRT

**00:00 - Half a Xanax, Double Espresso**

Mikasa waits at the gate at LAX for two hours, idly sipping from a canned double shot of espresso with milk, before the airline even lets first class board. Her hands shake when she hands her boarding pass over to the attendant to be scanned. She tells herself it’s the caffeine making her jittery, but it could be the fact that this is her first time on an airplane and that on the other side at Narita will be a group of complete strangers waiting excitedly just for her.

When she sits down at her seat, she digs through her battered green canvas backpack for the orange pill bottle that holds the remaining three and a half Xanax that Grisha prescribed her. (“Not too many, Mikasa,” he told her as he handed her the little plastic vial. “This stuff is very addictive.”) She fishes out the half pill with one hooked finger and swallows it with one last tepid mouthful of canned coffee.

Her head is down, trying to locate her bottle of water and her Japanese flash cards when her seatmate arrives. When she looks up she sees a torso - a very nice one, if she is being honest - clad in a simple black suit and a crisp white shirt with the top two buttons undone. He wears an expensive-looking leather messenger bag over one shoulder. The man is small and thin, but the little of him there is looks solid, heavy. He finishes stowing his bag in the overhead compartment, then slams the door closed and sinks down into his seat, placing the messenger bag on his lap. He wears oversized reflective aviator sunglasses marked with a small but noticeable mirrored G logo, and he is scowling.

Mikasa may be way out of her league - the first class ticket is a college graduation gift, an extremely extravagant one, from her adoptive family - but even she recognizes a pair of Gucci sunglasses when she sees them. This guy is the real thing, she thinks. It makes her frown and fidget in her chair, as though he’ll be able to summon a flight attendant and have her removed from the plane for being too poor.

Her seatmate has no interest in that, since he seems to have just as much interest in acknowledging her in any way. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a newspaper, effectively hiding his face when he opens it and starts to read. Mikasa shrugs and starts flipping through her flash cards to find the most important one. It has no Japanese characters on it, only a series of names connected by lines and arrows. _Hiroko is my cousin,_ she reminds herself. _Shizue is Hiroko’s mom and my mom’s sister. My mom’s siblings are Shizue and Tetsuya. Tetsuya is married to Sachiko and has two daughters, Yui and Miho._

“Uncle Tetsuya often feels outnumbered with all the women in the family. It’s why he is so happy that Yui is marrying her boyfriend Haru after they graduate from university!” she remembers from one of Hiroko’s messages. Mikasa reaches into her backpack for a pen.

“Haru is Yui’s boyfriend,” she mutters to herself as she draws a little heart next to Yui’s name and writes “Haru” next to the heart.

There is a beep in the cabin as the loudspeaker comes to life. “Good afternoon and konnichiwa to all of you on today’s flight to Tokyo,” the pilot intones. “Right now it is 81 degrees in sunny Los Angeles with clear skies. In Tokyo it is currently 70 and raining, but hopefully that’ll clear up before we get there in 11 hours. Also of note, we have an especially empty flight today, so stretch out and enjoy. Have a nice flight.”

At the end of the speech, the guy sitting next to her scoffs from behind his newspaper. Mikasa makes a face at him, sticking her tongue out, when her attention is caught by the empty seats beyond him. She pokes her head up and looks around the cabin; aside from her seatmate, there is no one else in first class.

Sitting back down again, she decides to drill herself in Japanese, trying to at least be able to say a few basic things. She has only had a couple of weeks to squeeze in studying time between day shifts waiting tables and night shifts tending bar. Mikasa is glad that she has managed to save a few hundred dollars for shopping money, but regrets that she only knows how to say hello, yes, goodbye, and where is the bathroom?

“Hajimemashite, Mikasa desu,” she reads. “Ha-ji-me-ma-shi-te. Hajimemashite,” she repeats. She closes her eyes, tries to remember how she’s going to greet her family. “Hajimemashite, Mikasa desu.” She checks the card and smiles, flips to the next one. “Oba-san. O-ba-san.”

“You’re saying it wrong,” her seatmate says from behind his newspaper. Don’t emphasize the O so much.“ He repeats the word in a perfect accent, his voice a low rumble.

“Thanks,” she says, and decides to mouth the rest of the words on her list. She shuffles through the words, quizzing herself on how to say cousin, please, thank you. When the card with her crude family tree comes up again, she looks up and out the window to see the squat gray airport three hundred feet further than she last saw it. Frowning, she checks her phone and sees that between the delay in the terminal and the delay on the runway, her flight is now running nearly three hours late.

The intercom beeps again. “Sorry for the wait, folks. Due to some flights being delayed, there’s a bit of a traffic jam on the runway. We should receive our runway assignment soon, then we’ll be ready for takeoff. Shouldn’t be more than another fifteen minutes.”

“Probably closer to forty-five,” the man in the next seat grumbles.

**02:32 - Whiskey, Rocks; Vodka Tonic**

They are both wrong; it is another hour and five minutes before the plane starts to move. Mikasa grips the edge of the armrest until her fingertips ache. As the plane’s wheels leave the earth her stomach flips and she stifles a small giggle at the feeling. Grinning, she flips open the window shade to watch their ascent, the earth skewed at a dizzying angle relative to their path in the sky, then the white fog of clouds.

The intercom beeps one more time and the pilot announces that they have reached cruising altitude, and that they may start to use electronic devices. Mikasa reaches into her bag and fishes out her MP3 player and headphones.

As she rights herself she sees her seatmate folding his newspaper and placing it in his bag. Energized from the novelty of flying, she decides to try to speak to him. “Why are you flying to Japan?”

He just stares at her instead of answering, nostrils flared and upper lip slightly curled in a look of disgust, as he fishes a pair of enormous Bose headphones from his messenger bag and puts them on, effectively ending the conversation. The guy leans back in his seat and closes his eyes.

“Asshole,” she grumbles.

There are two stewardesses assigned to them: a petite blonde woman who smiles like she’s being paid by the tooth and a tall, dark woman who glares at them when they dare to ask for more drinks. Mikasa prefers the first, who tells her that her name is Historia and promises to take care of her once she learns that Mikasa has never flown before.

Her seatmate seems to prefer the second, the freckled brunette who has yet to introduce herself but who knows to show up when he raises his right arm, holding his empty Old Fashioned glass by the tips of his fingers, and refill his drink with vodka and a splash of tonic. She says nothing, makes no sound besides the clink of ice on glass and an exasperated sigh at being made to do her job.

“Pardon me,” Historia says after their second round of drinks, “but perhaps one of you would like to move. The rest of first class is open.”

“I’m not moving,” they say in unison.

Historia furrows her brow. “Are you sure?”

Mikasa’s seatmate shakes his head. “I paid for this seat. I’m not moving.”

Mikasa takes a moment to consider her answer and decides on, “I’m not giving this douche the satisfaction of me moving.”

“The name is Levi,” he all but snarls.

She returns his anger with a complacent look. “Well, Levi, looks like we’ll be enjoying the next eleven hours together.”

“I look forward to it.” His voice is even, but his eyes are narrowed to deadly-looking slits.

She half-smiles at him, her face a pleasant mask. “I’m sure it’ll be a great time,” she says icily.

When a flight attendant comes by to check on them, they both order doubles, glaring at each other out of the corners of their eyes.

**05:57 - Dear God, Just Give Me the Bottle**

Mikasa takes a long swallow of whiskey and washes it down with the rest of her glass of cranberry juice.

“You certainly are drinking a lot,” Levi says.

“It’s free. And you’ve been keeping pace with me,” she replies.

He lifts up his empty glass, shaking it a little so the ice rattles around. The dark-haired stewardess comes by, takes it away, and hands him a fresh glass filled with ice and a few splashes of tonic water, then reaches onto the cart and passes him two handfuls of miniature Grey Goose bottles. “Just don’t puke, okay?” Levi says, turning to Mikasa.

She smirks and gestures toward his stash of vodka. “I could say the same to you.”

“For your information, I don’t get drunk,” he says, pouring the contents of one of the little vodka bottles into the plastic cup, then setting the empty besides four of its kind and three full ones. “No matter how much I drink.”

“You too?” Mikasa cocks her head at him.

He rolls his eyes. “I seriously doubt-”

“I outdrank an entire fraternity and then passed a field sobriety test. Although I suppose it’s not official if the person administering the test can barely stand. I don’t get hangovers, either,“ she says smoothly, her mouth curling into a smug smile.

"Look, I’m not trying to get in a drinking contest with some stranger on a plane.”

She shrugs. “Who said anything about that?”

Levi tips his head back and drains half of his vodka tonic in one swallow. “Good. Because you’d lose.”

“Says the guy who’s not even drinking his liquor straight,” she taunts him, then motions for the flight attendant to come back. She does, wordlessly collecting Mikasa’s used cup, replacing it with a fresh one, and handing her four little bottles of Jack Daniel’s. Mikasa dumps them all in her cup. “Can I have some water, please?” she asks. A bottle of water appears before her. The silently surly flight attendant isn’t so bad after all, she thinks.

Mikasa reclines in her chair, holding her mostly-full cup of whiskey in one hand, the other resting on the armrest that separates her seat from Levi’s. She sips from it every so often, alternating between looking out the window and closing her eyes. After she has drained half the whiskey, the plane starts to jump and shake. Mikasa stiffens in her seat, her entire body tensing with sudden shock and anxiety.

“What the hell?” Levi says. Mikasa looks over at him quizzically; he is looking down at the armrest, where she has apparently grasped his hand. She goes to release his hand but then the plane shudders again and she tenses, squeezing his fingers in her own. “That wasn’t an invitation to crush my hand.”

“Sorry,” she says, releasing his hand and resettling hers on the armrest, gripping it with white knuckles. “It’s my first time flying.”

He frowns. “That’s still a thing?”

A sarcastic “wow” is all Mikasa says before she puts her headphones on and turns away from him. She gets two hours of relaxation before she feels Levi’s arm pressing against hers. When she glances at him out of the corner of her eyes she sees him holding a tablet with one hand, reading something, and trying to push her off the armrest with his free arm. He puts down the tablet, lifts his glass, gets a refill, and picks up the tablet again, all while applying that same pressure against her. So she pushes back, and they fight for dominance over the thin piece of plastic that separates their seats.

“I’ll arm wrestle you for it,” Mikasa suggests.

“Are you insane?”

“No. Just sick of your gross sweaty arm touching mine. Loser has to give up the armrest for the rest of the flight.”

“That’s your disgusting arm, not mine,” Levi replies. “But you’re on. I hope you like losing.”

Mikasa does not bother to respond with anything more substantial than a loud scoff as Levi moves the armrest up and out of the way, then reaches under their seats and pulls up a small table that folds out between their seats. They both stand and place their elbows on the plastic and grip each other’s hands, glaring into each other’s eyes. She tries to ignore the fact that Levi’s eyes are a cold but still quite attractive shade of gray, and that his hands are soft and warm.

The match is close, each one of them getting a little leverage and then losing it, but after a few minutes Mikasa’s arm starts to tire and she feels her hand being pushed closer and closer to the tabletop. Levi says nothing, just looks at her as if to say, “I told you so.”

“Best out of three,” Mikasa demands, cracking her knuckles.

Levi shrugs. “Fine, I’ll beat you again.” The second match goes the same as the first, only Mikasa is the victor.

“Final round,” she taunts him as they settle back into position, elbows digging into the table, hands clasped. Levi grunts as he struggles against Mikasa’s strength but he holds firm - until the plane hits another patch of turbulence and he loses his footing for a split second, allowing Mikasa to slam his hand against the table.

“Hah!” she cries. “I win!”

“No, that’s interference,” he counters. “I would have won if there hadn’t been any turbulence.”

“No way. I had that.” She shrugs. “But if you insist, I guess we could re-rematch.” She puts her elbow back down on the table and holds her hand out, waiting for him.

He curls his upper lip. “How gracious of you.”

The plane jumps then, causing the table to collapse and fall to the floor. Mikasa, having leaned forward to rest all of her weight on the table, now finds herself continuing to move in that direction, falling until she lands on top of Levi, who lands sideways in his seat.

“Hi,” she says softly, seemingly stunned by these events (she hopes, and not by the fact that her hands are currently resting on Levi’s pectoral muscles, whose definition she can feel through his shirt).

“Hi,” he replies in the same voice, his eyes wide with alarm even as his hand slides around to her back to steady her, to make sure she doesn’t fall.

**8:19 - No Order**

“Ymir! They’re making out up there!” Historia says in a stage whisper as she pushes the drinks cart back against the wall. “I didn’t even ask if they wanted a drink. I figured there was no point interrupting them.”

“Let me see.” Ymir cranes her neck to see the only two occupants of first class sprawled across both seats in the row, kissing each other with wild abandon.

“They’re really going at it,” Historia says, standing on her tiptoes to try to get a better view from the crew area.

“That they are,” Ymir replies. “I didn’t think straight people had it in them. Good for them.” She claps softly, a sarcastic look on her face.

Historia rolls her eyes. “They’re just drunk.”

“Get this: I heard both of them claim they can’t get drunk. How dumb is that?” Ymir shakes her head.

“Yeah, because sober people make out with complete strangers all the time. After arm wrestling with them. Who does that?”

Ymir chuckles. “Since when did you stop giving a fuck?”

“Not recently. You know this job sucks. I’m just better at faking it in front of the passengers than you are,” Historia informs her, crossing her arms.

Ymir ruffles Historia’s hair. “Aw, you try? That’s cute.”

“Fuck you, Ymir.” Historia steps back and smooths her hair down, shooting a murderous glare at her coworker.

“That can be arranged. Wanna try joining the Mile High Club?”

“I’ve told you before, that bathroom is way too cramped to do anything in.”

“Come on! That’s half the reason I took this stupid job. I’m gonna cross it off my bucket before I quit. Or get fired,” Ymir adds after a moment.

Historia rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you got fired.”

“Look, I’m gonna get started in the crew bathroom. Are you joining me or not?”

“Ugh.”

“That’s not a no.” Historia blushes and looks down at her shoes. “You remember the knock I taught you, right?” Ymir asks, then reaches over to touch the other woman’s chin, lifting her face to meet her own.

“Yes,” Historia says with a wicked little smile.

**13:44 - Coffee. Lots of Coffee. The Strongest Coffee You Have.**

Mikasa asks if Levi would like to join her in the bathroom but he declines, citing ineffective disinfection procedures on the airline.

“But otherwise I would,” he adds by way of apology, pushing a strand of hair out of her face with one finger and kissing her to show her he means it.

So they talk instead. She asks him to tell her about himself so he tells her about growing up poor in a huge city, about how he escaped by joining the army, how he works in the music industry and seems to spend more and more of his time on planes these days.

“I should apologize for being an asshole earlier. I don’t deal with, uh, regular people a lot,” Levi says.

“Regular people? Is that what rich folks refer to us as?”

“Nah. You’re peons,” he tells her with a smirk.

Mikasa sticks her tongue out at him. “Apology not accepted.”

“Now that’s the diva behavior I’m used to.”

“Do you work with celebrities a lot?”

“You could say that.” He lifts his empty styrofoam cup, the insides stained brown with the dregs of his coffee, and waits until the dark-haired flight attendant gives him a refill.

An hour later, Mikasa squeezes Levi’s hand as the plane makes a bumpy landing and he lets her, even smiles at her while she does it.

“I told you it was my first time flying,” she tells him as the plane starts to taxi and she relaxes her grip on him.

“I believe you,” Levi replies. “The shattered bones in my fingers definitely believe you.”

She chuckles. “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“Nope. You really dug your elbow in when we were fighting for that armrest. I’m going to have a bruise on my arm.”

He looks down at the armrest, at her arm pressed against his, his left hand clasping her right. “I think that issue resolved itself nicely. Besides, I’m pretty sure you gave me a hickey.”

“I have some concealer in my bag.”

“I might take you up on that.” He rubs his thumb over hers for a few moments. “You know, you never actually told me why you’re going to Japan.”

“I’m meeting my mom’s family. My cousin Hiroko found me on Facebook a few months ago and invited me to visit.”

“And your mom’s not here because…?”

“She’s dead.”

Levi snorts. “Probably shouldn’t have asked that.”

“Dancing around it isn’t going to bring her back to life,” she says with a shrug. “My parents died in a car accident when I was 9.”

He makes no response for a few moments. “Sorry.”

“So yeah. Now I have a whole side of the family that I’m meeting for the first time. On a plane for the first time. In a country where I only know how to introduce myself and ask where the bathroom is.”

He nods sagely. “You’re not an idiot. You’ll be fine.”

They get separated at Customs; Levi is waved through while Mikasa stays, watching helplessly as a prim-looking woman in a military-esque uniform goes through her backpack item by item while wearing rubber gloves. After Mikasa is allowed to pass through, stuffing her wallet, hoodie, and two tampons back in her bag as she tries to find the baggage claim, she spies a two women, one about her age and an older woman with streaks of gray in her hair, holding a small sign that says “Welcome, Mikasa!”

Mikasa slings her backpack over one shoulder and walks over to them, her eyes already filling with tears. She bows deeply, then says her practiced line: “Hajimemashite, Mikasa desu.”

The older woman, her aunt Shizue if the resemblance to her mother is any indication, steps forward and says something in Japanese, then embraces Mikasa, crying.

Hiroko introduces herself, then translates: “My mom says you look just like your mom.” Mikasa tears up then, covering her mouth with one hand to stifle a sob, and is immediately enfolded in another hug by her aunt.

It is another ten minutes before Mikasa can break away from them long enough to retrieve her suitcase. Hiroko and Shizue leave to get the car and agree to meet Mikasa by the taxi stand. As she walks over to the baggage carousel, she is relieved to find that her flight’s cargo has yet to be unloaded.

“I thought I’d missed you,” comes a low voice. Mikasa looks to her left and finds Levi standing there, looking up at her, his lips curved into a small smile.

“Just waylaid by customs and my crying aunt,” she replies. She rubs at her eyes and finds them moist, then prays that they’re not too red or puffy. They make idle small talk as they wait for their luggage. Levi’s comes out first, a massive black rectangle on wheels that seems to weigh more than he does. He stays with her to wait for her suitcase, but they are interrupted by someone calling his name exasperatedly. Mikasa looks over to see a tall blond man approaching them, saying something in Japanese in an even deeper voice than Levi’s.

“Shit,” Levi says under his breath, then looks at his watch. “I’m late for a meeting.” He raises his hand and motions towards the large man who is making his way through the crowd. The man stops and crosses his arms, tapping one foot. Levi reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and produces a small white business card. “Hey, here’s my card. My Japanese cell number is on it if you want to, uh, take some time away from the whole family thing…”

Mikasa smiles. “Are you asking me out?”

“Just take the card,” Levi says in a mildly irritated voice, though she can see his cheeks color, just a little.

Mikasa plucks the card from his fingers and puts it in her pocket. “Are you going to take me out for really, really good sushi if I call you?”

He looks away for a moment, then back at her. She’s smiling, and soon he is too. “I guess I am now.”

**Epilogue - A Double Shot of Eren Yelling**

Two weeks later, Mikasa sits on Levi’s bed, putting in a pair of rhinestone-encrusted chandelier earrings, when her laptop chirps. The earrings aren’t really her style - she rarely remembers her ears are even pierced, to say nothing of her nearly nonexistent jewelry collection - but her cousin Yui insisted on buying them for her when they were out shopping in Shibuya.

She turns the laptop to face her and sees a Skype call from Eren. Smiling, she hits “accept” and a small window appears, revealing Eren sitting at the desk at his bedroom.

“Hey!” she says. “How are you?”

“Exhausted,” Eren sighs. “I’m doing chores for two now.”

Mikasa laughs. “You’ll live.”

“How’s Japan? I wish I could go! It’s so lame here,” he gripes.

“You’d probably be pretty bored watching me hang out with my family.”

“I don’t know. I stalked Hiroko’s Facebook. She’s pretty cute.”

“Oh, gross,” she laughs. “Stay away from Hiroko.”

“I’m already pretty far away.” He looks at her quizzically. “So what are you all dressed up for? Hot date?”

Mikasa snickers and looks down at her dress, a white halter with a full skirt and decorated with a bright cherry print, another souvenir from her afternoon with Yui. “Yeah, actually.”

“Wait, what?” Eren yelps. Mikasa recoils and turns down on the volume. “You met someone? Already?”

“Yeah.” She decides to leave out the drinking and the arm wrestling and the making out for another time, if ever. Eren has never been particularly interested in acting as a brother to her, preferring simply to be her friend, except when it comes to her love life. She prefers his inattention to his rabid watchdogging, but at the same time it is nice to know he is looking out for her.

“Mikasa? Are you ready?” Levi calls from the bathroom.

“One minute,” she replies. “Eren Skyped me.”

“Who is that?” Eren asks. “Is that your date?”

Levi walks into the room then, carrying his blazer over one shoulder. Again he wears a white shirt and black pants, both impeccably tailored; in the last few weeks she has learned that it is a uniform of sorts, that his closet is full of all of the designer clothes a person could ever need and he still prefers to wear the same thing every day. She tried to tease him about it, but then he offered to swap out her faded and worn red scarf for something from the pile of silk Hermès scarves someone just gave him. She hissed, “Over my dead body” and was rewarded with one of his rare grins.

He sits down next to Mikasa on the bed, then runs one finger through the beads on her earring, listening to them clink and jingle. “I like these,” he murmurs, dropping a soft kiss on her cheek.

“This is Levi,” Mikasa tells Eren. “We met on the plane.”

Levi disengages from Mikasa and looks at the guy on the screen. “Hey, Eren,” he says, lifting one hand in a tentative greeting. “Mikasa’s told me a lot about you.”

Eren just stares into the camera, his mouth open a little, his eye wide. “Mikasa!” he cries. He runs one hand roughly through his hair. “I can’t believe you!”

She throws up her hands in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“That’s… that’s Levi!” Eren’s voice starts to raise and he gesticulates wildly as he talks.

She narrows her eyes at him. “Uh, yeah, I just told you.”

“No, I mean…” He trails off, then frantically looks around for a moment at the posters that decorate his bedroom. “One second.” He gets up and walks over to his dresser, rifling through it for a minute before pulling out a black t-shirt. He holds up the shirt to the camera when he sits down: it is a shirt for his favorite band, No Name, and features its three members, each clad in black suits and their trademark, thin white bandages wrapped around their eyes. Levi stands in the front of the image, pressing a vintage silver radio microphone to his lips.

Mikasa merely raises her eyebrows at Levi, who shrugs and nods. “You’re not going to be weird about this, are you?” he asks in a low voice.

“Why would I be? Eren’s the fanboy.”

“Hey!” Eren says. “I can still hear you.”

“I’ll give Mikasa some signed crap for you,” Levi says.

“I like him,” Eren says. “Keep him around.”

“Thanks for the advice, Eren,” Mikasa singsongs, rolling her eyes but unable to wipe a silly smile from her face. “I’ll Skype you when I get back to my aunt’s house, okay?”  
  
“When will that be?” Eren asks skeptically.

“Uh… I’ll let you know,” she says with a bashful smile. “Bye, Eren.”

“Talk to you later.”

“So you’ve heard of my band, huh?” Levi asks her as she closes her laptop.

She bites her lower lip, trying to think of something magnanimous to say. “Heard of, yeah. Eren does most of the actual listening.”

“Don’t sugarcoat your opinion,” he says.

Mikasa looks right into his eyes and says, “I think you guys suck.”

Levi throws back his head and laughs, the first time she has ever seen him do that in the short time she’s known him. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”


End file.
